Brother my Brother
by TwistedTale
Summary: "Who are you?" His eyebrows rose. "I suppose I am your brother."


Summary: "Who are you?" His eyebrows rose. "I suppose I am your brother."

An: My entry for Artistic Gymnastics for the Hogwarts Olympics Challenge! I hope you all enjoy reading!

Brother my Brother

* * *

"The deepest definition of youth is life as yet untouched by tragedy" - Alfred North Whitehead

* * *

Priscilla peered around the corner and watched her father. He was staring into the fire again- _daydreaming _her tutor would have called it. _I bet no one slaps his hands for daydreaming _she thought crossly and scooted slowly inside the room. He didn't notice… but he never did. That was fine by her; it made the game easier to play. She pressed her whole body against the floor and tried to move the way she remembered the black kitten she used to have did. What was the word for it again? _Prowling_. She had learned that word last week from her tutor, who did at times have his _prowled _across the room until she was at the wardrobe by the giant bed at the opposite end of the room.

She glanced over her shoulder to be sure she wasn't being watched before slowly opening the drawers and started looking through her parents things. There was a word for that too. _Rummaging. _She had learned that word from the gardener when he was yelling at a boy for going through their garbage. Why anyone would want to go through garbage when the things in parent's wardrobes were so much better was beyond her. Something gold and glittering caught her eye. Lying under the piles of clothes, forgotten, was a single golden cufflink. It was perfect. She snatched it up and slowly closed the drawer. Priscilla peeked over at the still form of her father to be sure she hadn't attracted his attention before falling to the floor again and _prowling _to the open door. She had won the game.

Delighted, and safely hidden by the wall, she stood up and raced through the large manor house. She came to her room quickly enough and almost knocked down a maid in her haste to enter. Her room was done up in purple, dark purple, light purple, and purple purple, because pink was Amelia Westershin's color and Priscilla wasn't a copycat. Not like that Robin girl from down the road.

"Hello Ms. Riddle, is there anything you would like?"

The little girl blinked and turned to face the maid she had almost ran into.

"No. Go away."

For some reason the maid seemed to find that amusing and tried to hide a small smile behind her hand.

"As you wish," the maid said. With that she picked up a basket of clothes and left, chuckling all the way.

What was so funny? Priscilla wanted to call back the maid and _demand _(a word she had learned from her grandfather)to know what was so funny. But the ache in her tightly clenched hand reminded her that she had to hide her new treasure first. She rushed over to her door and slammed it shut; she then ran to her wardrobe and wormed her way under the tiny gap between the large piece of furniture and the floor. She was greeted by the sight of an old dusty hatbox and slowly opened it. She smelt the mothballs she had placed inside it- because who wanted yucky old moths in your treasures?- and the faint smell of a small handful of potpourri from the sitting room. She grinned and tilted the box so she could see inside. There was a tiny silver tea spoon with a rose engraved on the handle from her grandmother's room, a half melted candle that was just the right shade of blue from her other grandmother's house, a cigar from her grandfather's room- that according to him was _absolutely_ _not_ a grown up cigarette- half of a bottle of her mother's perfume and a string of her pearls, and now the golden cufflink.

Pleased she looked each item again and again until the dust made her nose itch and she had to scoot back out.

"Priscilla Mary Riddle just what do you think you are doing."

She froze and slowly looked up. It was Nanny.

The woman had long legs, a long body, long arms, a long neck, a long nose, and a long face. She reminded the girl of her pony in the stable except Nanny was human and didn't appreciate it when Priscilla jumped on her back for rides.

"Nothing."

"Then why is there dust all over your new dress?"

Her brain scrambled- not like the eggs- for an answer. She couldn't tell Nanny about her treasures, she would take them away and give them back and Priscilla would have to find them all over again. Not to mention the spanking she would be sure to get.

"Well?"

"I…" she hated being stared at, especially by Nanny, her eyes were black and shiny like buttons. "Buttons!"

Nanny looked confused. "Buttons?"

"Button, I dropped one on the floor and it rolled under the wardrobe and I went to get it." Priscilla was very proud of her answer, she had come up with it right on the spot and normally her brain didn't work that fast. Today was a good day.

Nanny's eyebrow _quirked, _Priscilla had learned that word on her own from a dictionary. After learning the word she _promptly _(A word she learned from her grandmother) hid the dictionary in her room so she would be able to read it again later. It was still wedged behind her bed.

"Ok, show it to me."

"What?"

"Your button, show it to me."

Priscilla hadn't expected this. "I lost it?" She asked timidly.

"Did you?" Nanny replied.

She hated it when grownups talked like that; it usually meant they were trying to trick her into saying something she didn't want to.

"Yes…"

"You know lying is a sin, Priscilla."

The girl couldn't help but scrunch up her nose. _Everything _seemed like it was a sin, laughing, dancing, running around naked, extra sweets, singing anything but that stupid church music- _hymns _the man at the church called them- and anything fun at all really…. But she didn't want to go to Hell… even if she didn't know exactly what it was besides a place for sinners. When she asked what was so horrible about it both of her grandmothers always talked fire and daemons and no dessert after dinner. Her mother told her it was a place you were all alone. Her grandpa, her only one left, said it would force her to do the sinful act over and over again for all of eternity until the sinner went crazy. That one didn't sound so bad.

It was her father's answer that scared her the most.

"It is a place of witchcraft," he had said very seriously. "Where you are forced to do things you do not want to do over and over again against your will. Only you think that it is exactly what you want at the time and no matter what you do you can't ever break free until the witch decides to let you go." His eyes were far away when he had said that. "After that you always wonder if the things you like are truly things you like, if the people you love are truly the people you love, and if the places you have been really existed or were just some crazy _delusion_."

She didn't dare ask what delusion meant. Even though she really, really, wanted to. It probably had something to do with witches. Her father hated witches even though Nanny and her mother claimed they didn't exist. It didn't stop her father from believing in them though. He hated anything to do with magic, even the word. He was the one who _banished_- a word she hated- her black kitten to her other grandmother's house where she never got to see him except at Sunday brunch. He claimed that cats were witches' spies even though it sounded crazy.

"I was just prowlingon the ground," she finally said.

"There now was that so hard to tell your old Nanny the truth?"

Yes. Yes it had been. But she shook her head 'no' anyway because that was what Nanny wanted.

"I didn't think so, come now let's get you dressed and presentable for dinner. I heard your mother is coming over tonight, don't you want to look nice for her?"

Hope bloomed in her chest. Her mother and father had had a fight, a big one, just a few days ago about things she didn't and couldn't understand. It had ended with her mother storming out in a fit of rage and her father telling her not to bother coming back. Priscilla only hid and cried because it was all her fault for running off with her friends to see the tramps that lived in the house over the hill. They hadn't even gotten to see anything when they peeked at the house except a dead snake nailed to the door.

"Do you think she will?"

Nanny smiled. "If you close your eyes and pray very hard I think anything can happen. God tends to listen to the more innocent voices in the world."

So she did. She shut her eyes tightly and prayed and prayed until her eyes ached and by the time she opened them Nanny had gotten her into a new dress, a clean scratchy one like her mother liked to see her in. She would just _have _to get her way now!

The sound of a bell echoed through the house.

"Dinner is ready. Come now before you are late again."

Priscilla didn't need to be told twice. She practically bounced all the way to the dining room except she couldn't because she didn't want to mess up her dress. Her mother hated it when she messed up her dresses. Tonight she couldn't afford to _offend- _a word she had picked up from everyone in the house-anyone.

Her grandparents were already there when she definitely did NOT bounce into the room with Nanny at her heels.

"Well, well, look who is on time today," her grandmother said with a smile. Priscilla beamed and puffed out her chest and skipped over to her chair, plopping down heavily into the seat.

"Now if we can get Tom to do the same dinner might actually come out warm tonight," her grandfather _grumped_- a word she had learned from a maid- and restlessly drummed his fingers against the table.

"If you do not need me I will be going now."

Her grandfather waved a large hand and Nanny bowed slightly before leaving the room.

"Damn gypsy woman," her grandfather grumbled.

"Language dear," her grandmother replied.

Priscilla pretended not to hear them and instead eyed the glass bird nestled in the centerpiece. It was purple. She had to have it. Her fingers twitched and almost against her will her hand inched toward the flowery arrangement-

She was interrupted by a shout from the other room and a loud bang. Everyone at the table flinched at the sound. Her father stormed into the room, his handsome features set into a look of absolute fury as he took his seat between her and her grandfather. His nostrils were flared and his black eyes were even blacker than she ever remembered seeing them. No one dared to speak as he composed himself.

Slowly the man turned to look at his daughter and she had to swallow as her nerves caught up with her.

"I'm sorry Priscilla, but your mother will not be joining us for dinner tonight."

Her heart broke.

"What happened Tom?" Her grandmother leaned forward, tiny eyes bright with curiosity as her grandfather summoned the maid to bring in the food and to take away her mother's placement.

"She insisted I apologize and when I refused she said she would not take even one step towards the house until I did," he looked back at Priscilla "She sends you her love." His smile wasn't sincere and the little girl felt tears welling up.

"Women today," her grandfather started, "Do not know their place like they did in my day. Cecilia needs a good reminder of who is in charge in your marriage." He emphasized his point by slamming his fist down on the table.

Her father rolled his eyes. "I could beat her half to death and she would still be just as stubborn."

"Perhaps she is right."

Both men turned to face her grandmother, betrayal etched into their every feature.

"Mary!" "Mother!"

"Don't you 'Mary' me Thomas Riddle, you know the problem isn't with Cecilia it never has been." Her grandmother's dark eyes bore into her husbands and the man _fidgeted-_ something Priscilla was absolutely not allowed to do ever. She wanted to scream about the unfairness of it all, instead she only let a few of the tears she had been holding back fall. No one noticed.

"What are you talking about mother?" Her father's voice was deathly serious and Priscilla made herself as small as possible at the sound of it. He only ever talked like that when he was going to spank her and she let a few more tears fall and fought the whimper that threatened to leave her throat.

"You and I both know what I am talking about. Your first marriage changed you Tom-"

"_That was not a marriage it was witchcraft!_" He howled and Priscilla slowly slipped down her chair and onto the floor. She would hide under the tablecloth until the shouting stopped… if it ever did.

"And that is my point! All of your mumbling about witchcraft has driven the poor girl into a tizzy, she doesn't know how to deal with your insanity."

Silence.

"Insanity?" He was so, so, angry. She could tell. Priscilla stared at his shoes as he slowly stood. "Insanity was what that woman did to me for _months _before I was finally released. Insanity is the love potion that forced me to lay with her night after night-" she could hear him choke as if it were hard for him so speak.

"You made a mistake, a stupid foolish mistake; it is time to move on-"

"I cannot! Not while I know she still lives and breathes somewhere out there just waiting to drug me again and call the result love."

"She has been gone for _fifteen years _Tom, she isn't coming back! Whatever… madness that over took you is over now. Don't let that woman spoil what you have with Cecilia and- oh where is Priscilla?"

The little girl said nothing and instead wrapped her arms around her legs and buried her face into her knees. Her life wasn't fair. The adults made stupid rules, and had stupid fights, and kept her stupid mother away from their stupid house.

_Even if I pray for mother to come back God will not be able to hear me over them!_

She wished they were dead.

Somewhere in the house the clocked chimed seven times and she sniffed and looked up at the underside of the table. Counting. Counting had always calmed her in the past.

Above her the adults had discovered her hiding place and were giving her to three to come back up.

There were thirteen chairs at the table.

A single spider crawled across the floor.

Across the room a fourth pair of shoes appeared at the other end of the extensive dining table.

"Hello father, pardon my intrusion upon your dinner but my business simply could not wait."

Stunned silence. Priscilla stared at the muddy, worn shoes of the newcomer with fascination. Poor people were usually not let into the house, he must have had _moxie- _a word she had learned from a cleaning lady in Penny's house- to get this far.

"You see," the voice continued, smooth as silk over honey, "I am only in town for this one little errand before I have to go back to school."

"What- what errand?" Her grandmother asked, breathlessly.

"Why revenge of course."

Green light filled the room, a heavy thud, her grandmother screaming- more light, another thud and silence- once more, a last sound and all was silent but for the heavy breathing of the stranger. Priscilla clutched her knees tighter and stared as the feet walked slowly around the table, he moved slowly and not one of the adults made a move against him. What had happened?

"A table set for four yet only three people are before me."

Fear. It pulled at her heart and she leaned against her father's legs, grasping and tugging at the fabric of his pants in a silent plea to do _something._ He didn't even twitch.

"I know you are under there, come out before I drag you out."

She didn't want to move. So she didn't. This stranger wasn't in charge of her. There was a weary sigh and an invisible _something _grasped her ankle and dragged her out. She was on the ground, her dress was askew and messy, the adult's heads were resting on their dinner plates, and her father was staring down at her with some sort of stick in his hand.

No.

No that wasn't right, he was too young, and her father was still slumped at the dinner table. An idea of _why _he was like that niggled at the back of her mind but she firmly ignored that. Instead she turned her attention back to the stranger. They stared at each other for a long time before she finally spoke.

"Who are you?"

His eyebrows rose. "I suppose I am your brother."

That confused her. "I don't have a brother…"

"You do, but that is beside the point. The real question is what I am to do with you." He didn't give her any time to answer and just continued speaking as if she were not even there. "I suppose I could kill you but I do not bare enough of a grudge against you to properly cast the curse with this wand. There is resentment for your lifestyle of course but that is nowhere near strong enough."

He tapped the stick against his thigh as he thought.

"I suppose I could, in one act of brotherly compassion that I can assure you would never happen again, spare you… yes that may work." His eyes, dark and soulless locked into hers.

"Obliviate."

Her brain scrambled- this time like the eggs at breakfast- and memories slipped through her fingers like water. She could hold onto nothing and just like that that her day was gone.

She looked around. She was in the dining room, in her nice dress, with no idea of how she got there. The adults were _slumped_ at the table- something she would never be allowed to do- and looked to be very afraid of something. What was wrong with them?

At that moment a maid walked into the room, wheeling in a desert tray when she spotted the adults. She screamed bloody murder and promptly ran.

What was going on?

The maids scream summoned the cook, and the cook's horror filled cry summoned Nanny. The woman was deadly calm.

"Priscilla, come here child."

Priscilla looked over at the woman and her reaching hand, unsure and lost and not quite understanding what was happening. She felt like she was the center of what she imagined a hurricane to be like. Her tutor called it the eye of the storm.

"Priscilla. Now."

She knew that tone and responded to it, she went and took Nanny's hand, clutching it like a lifeline as the woman pulled her up and into her arms. Safe, secure, she started to cry into the woman's shoulder and she didn't know why only that she was very, very sad.

"Let it all out now, you will have to be strong in the coming days." The woman murmured as she carried Priscilla out of the room.

So she did.

* * *

_**Twenty Years Later**_

Amelia lounged at their shared table, long legs delicately crossed in front of her. She was wearing a form fitting pink dress cut just above the knees. Priscilla admired her for being able to do it, Amelia was much more confident with her body than Priscilla could ever could be.

"I don't know why you don't just sell the place."

Priscilla sighed drew a finger over the edge of her tea cup. It was an old argument between the two of them and one that Priscilla usually won, but tonight her friend was being surprisingly persistent.

"I can't Amy, you know I can't."

"Look, I know this may seem insensitive but your family died what, fifteen, twenty years ago? You need to move on; selling that house can be your first step."

"I can't," she repeated stonily.

"You can! Look I have found a buyer-"

"You did what?"

Amelia's chin jutted up. "I found someone willing to take it; he doesn't even want to live there so it will stay just the way it is. Not to mention the fact that he is willing to keep paying the remaining staff to stay on."

"You had no right to go behind my back like that! And who wants to buy a house but not live there?" Priscilla added almost as an afterthought.

"He said something about taxes and got into this long lecture about property value that makes my head hurt just thinking about it." She buried her face into her hands, making the little pink pill box hat tilt dangerously.

"You deserve it;" she said meanly "That house wasn't yours to offer."

Her friend peered at her over her hands "You would never have done it on your own, I was just trying to help-"

"I don't _want _your help!" She snapped and the girl flinched back at her tone. Priscilla sighed and rubbed at her temples. "Look I appreciate the fact that you want to help me, but you can't- no one can."

Silence fell between them, think and awkward, and Priscilla hated it. Amelia was the one person who had always been there for her besides her old Nanny, even when they were eight and Priscilla wouldn't speak to anyone for months after the death of her father and grandparents.

She shuddered as she remembered the weeks of questioning from doctors, the police, her mother- who was the worst of them all- and every stranger in the streets of town. The question was always the same. What happened to the Riddles?

It was a question she asked herself every day.

She could never find the answer. It was as if that entire day just didn't exist for her. The doctors her mother hired said it was because of the trauma of seeing her father murdered in front of her that made her forget. But something seemed _wrong _about that explanation and until she figured out what had happened that day she couldn't stand the thought of losing the house.

"I need to go, clear my head."

"Priscilla-"

"I will pay you back for tea; you know I'm good for it." She was good for any debt she had actually. Her grandparents- rightly suspicious of any woman her father married- willed their considerable fortune to her and only her, not to be touched except for a small stipend for her care until she was eighteen. Her mother had been furious when she found out.

Priscilla abruptly rose from her seat and _prowled _out of the little café. She paused. Why on earth had that word come to mind? She shook her head and continued walking. Ever since she was little she had always had a great affinity for words, as an adult that had not changed. Finding the right word for the right moment was something of a passion, the only one that could compete for her obsession with finding the missing day in her head. It was why she went into journalism even though she had enough money to do absolutely nothing for the rest of her days. Using an unusual word at times was just part of the business.

Content with her answer she walked through the busy streets. No one paid her any mind and she was thankful for it. She hated being the center of attention and normally wasn't. But every once and a while the old story about that night at the Riddle house would start up again and people would stare and whisper and Priscilla could do nothing but hold her head high and try to ignore them.

The gossip changed from year to year, first people blamed Frank Bryce- their old gardener- but there was never enough evidence to convict him of anything. To everyone's scorn he even returned to stay on as the gardener and had been doing the job ever since.

"I know the job, Miss," he had murmured to her when she had asked him why he had bothered to return "I know the house. Gossip don't bother me none. But if you want I can leave and find other work." His blue eyes were sad. In a surprising burst of empathy from her eight year old self she told him he could stay forever if he liked. He had been the only one who did.

The maids all refused to return and even though her mother tried to find a caretaker for the place everyone either refused the job outright or left after a week or two of being there. She remembered asking her Nanny why.

"For the same reason I imagine you don't want to return to the house, too many ghosts." Her old Nanny had replied.

The next person blamed was the cook. Even though no trace of poison was found people still liked to claim that was the answer, much to the man's affront.

"I may have hated the bastards but I'm no murderer!" He had apparently snarled as he packed up his family left on the first bus out of town. Apparently no one wanted to hire a cook who had been accused of poisoning in the past.

Some of the more crazy rumors blamed Priscilla and her Nanny on the murder but no one paid any mind to them. An eight year old and an old woman? Poppycock.

No one even bothered to look for the last suspect, even though Frank had seen him. Apparently a dark haired boy had approached the house that night, a boy that could not be identified even after lineup after lineup of the local teens.

"Trying to cover his tracks, we all know he did it," the townspeople said snidely.

Priscilla was positive he wasn't lying though. Some deep gut instinct screamed the truth of it every time she thought about it. As a consequence she had never been able to date brunettes.

The sound of a loud motor cut into her thoughts and she was only just able to dodge out of the way of a gang of boys on motorcycles.

"Watch it, witch!" One of them shouted over his shoulder and the rest cackled as they rounded the bend.

_My next piece is going to be on the dangers of those things. _She mentally grumbled and straightened her skirt. _Along with a very long column about how boys do well in military school. _She stomped to the end of the street and scowled at the leather clad backs of the cyclists as they continued down the road before she realized something.

The road they had gone down only had one destination. The Riddle house, _her _house.

Without thinking she started to run, not even flinching when her heels snapped under the uneven path and simply kicking them off. The rocks on the road dug into her feet and she hissed in pain when one cut her heel open but she didn't stop her mad dash until the dark eaves of the house loomed above her.

The place looked horrible.

Windows were broken, shingles were missing, ivy was creeping up the walls- her grandmother had _hated _ivy- and there was a coat of grime and moss over the lower steps of the house. It needed care. The bikers were on the front lawn by the stables, tearing up the turf with their bikes and laughing. The noise was terrible. Inside the stable a pony squealed in fear. Her pony. She hadn't seen him in years. Sudden guilt made her sick.

"Shove off you lot!"

It was Frank. He looked good for a man in his late forties. His blond hair was still cut short in the military style and there were a few more wrinkles around his eyes and stern mouth than there had been the last time they had met- how long had that been?- and he walked with a heavier limp.

He had a shotgun in his hands.

The boys stared at him, the more cowardly among them turned tail and fled, the rest gathered their courage and wheeled closer to him, their bikes purring.

"Oh yeah, what are you going to do if we don't?" The leader of the pack, a boy not much younger than her, sneered.

He leveled the weapon "I'm holding a gun boy, what do you think will happen?"

"You don't have the balls."

Frank cocked the gun.

It was getting out of hand. With courage she didn't know she had she ran in-between Frank and the bikers.

"That's enough!" She snarled.

The boys blinked in surprise and she heard Frank shift behind her.

"Who the hell are you?" The leader grunted in surprise.

"The home owner, now get out of here the police are already on their way." The lie was easy and from the sudden discomfort in the eyes of the bikers, believable.

"You don't look rich…" One of the boys in the back muttered.

She supposed he was right. She had splatters of mud all along the bottom of her white skirt along with her bare feet, her long blond hair was tied up into a very messy bun, and her shirt was torn and tie-dye.

"I'm eccentric. Now get out."

They hesitated a moment more before a well-timed siren in the background made them jump.

"This isn't over." The leader snarled and not a moment later they were gone. When they were out of sight she let herself slump in relief.

"The police really coming Miss Riddle?"

She looked over her shoulder at Frank. He was relaxed, the barrel of the gun pointing at the ground.

"No, were you really going to shoot them?"

He carefully opened the gun and grinned more widely than she had ever seen him smile.

"No, no bullets. War gave me a bellyful of killing; I don't need any more blood on me hands." He looked down at her feet. "You aren't wearing shoes."

She looked down at her toes. They were covered in mud and sores and the cut from earlier suddenly decided to throb.

"Oh…" she started to fall.

Frank caught her with a grunt, his own leg trembling for a moment before holding firm.

"Easy love, let's get you into the house… just need a minute to grab me key." He started to shuffle towards a small shed by the flower gardens when she stopped him.

"Don't bother, I have one right here." She reached around her neck and pulled out a fine silver chain from under her shirt, at the end was a small brass key. His eyes softened and he nodded, half carrying half dragging the two of them to the front door that she carefully unlocked.

The house was dark, dusty, and utterly without life. A chill moved down her spine as they lumbered toward the dining room. Every part of her body tensed up as they entered the room. Nothing had changed. The long table that dominated the room was still there, the chairs, dinner places without the plates… It felt like walking into a half forgotten memory.

Frank settled her down into one of the chairs and when he was sure of her comfort she started off. "Bandages are in the kitchen." He explained at her questioning look and she fought the desperate urge to call him back as he limped off.

If there was any place in the world she didn't want to be, this was it. She clutched at the back of the chair and looked carefully around, trying to calm her rising panic.

Everything had a thick layer of dust covering it, except for a few faint tracks on the ground that she recognized as belonging to mice. Spider webs hung from the walls and the chandler overhead. Not only that but there was the fait smell of something decaying in the air and the floorboards felt almost sticky under her feet. When was the last time someone had cleaned the place?

"A home is like a living thing," her grandmother on her mother's side would always say when she insisted on everyone- including her grouchy mother- helping with the Saturday chores. "If you don't care for it, it will decay down to nothing. But love it, nourish it, and fill it with those you care about and it will live and breathe."

"But it's just a building!" Priscilla remembered her twelve year old self arguing.

"Without a family and love it _is _just a building, a large hollow empty building. No offence to your grandparents but their home always seemed like just a building with furniture to me even when they were alive; they never added that personal touch that made it a home."

Looking around Priscilla got an inkling of what her grandmother meant. Everything seemed very impersonal… the pictures on the walls were not of family, there no old marks or scuffs from playing children or pets adorning the furniture, there were no colors or patterns she remembered her dead grandmother loving. The personal touch was traded for style.

A faint flash of light caught her eye as her gaze drew over the table. Curious despite her unease she leaned toward the table and looked again. There was a slight glitter in the centerpiece, it looked like glass.

With a careful hand she pulled back the tangled bits of the fake plant to reveal a very dusty glass bird. With a finger she slowly started to clean it, revealing its true color underneath the grey.

A purple glass bird…. She had to have it.

The urge struck her strongly and her fingers curled around the tiny glass animal. A faint echo of _something _screamed in the back of her head and she shut her eyes tightly and tried to catch it. She could almost hear her father's voice, angry and yelling about her mother….

"Here we are."

Her eyes shot open and the memory was lost. She wanted to slap Frank for interrupting her. The tenderness in his blue eyes shot away all feelings of animosity as he stiffly lowered himself to her feet and carefully dabbed at the cuts with an alcohol swab.

"I can do it myself," she said after a minute.

"Don't worry about it none, I'm almost done anyhow."

When he got to the cut on the bottom of her foot it took everything she had to keep from flinching. "Might need stiches," he murmured as he finished cleaning and bandaging it. When he was satisfied he looked up into her eyes, his gaze stern.

"Now what were you doin' running around barefoot?"

Her cheeks reddened "My heels broke… I saw those boys going up to the house and-"

"You ran after them?"

She nodded.

"That was a stupid move," he was frowning at her and she scowled in return "Don't look at me like that, it _was_ a stupid move. They was on bikes and they had numbers, you couldn't have done anything about them."

"Oh and you could?" She snapped.

"I have been keeping boys like them away for the past twenty years," he said calmly.

A rush of guilt overtook her. "Why haven't you let me know about it?"

"Didn't seem important, 'sides they never broke anything important, just a few windows and I fixed them up easy enough."

"Why haven't you called the police?" She asked, angry.

He snorted "Police don't care about an old murderer."

"But your not-"

"I know, and you know, but the police don't know and never cared to find out. I don't need their help anyhow; I can take care of any trouble that comes."

"Still I should have been here…"

"Now don't go and feel guilty Miss, this place has darker memories for you than it does me and I don't blame you for not commin' back."

Her heart warmed. After years of being told to face her fears by family and friends, it was nice to finally find someone who didn't call her a coward.

"Thank you."

Frank shrugged "Nothin' to thank, you're here now anyway… don't know why but you are."

She was. The feeling settled heavily on her shoulders and she gave a shuddering sigh. She didn't know what had prompted the desperate return- she could have just called ahead and warned Frank about the bikers instead of running- and even after she got there then she didn't know what possessed her to go into the house. It had been almost twenty years….

"Thank you," she merely said again. They lapsed into silence for a moment. "Frank, can you call my mother for me? I don't think I can make it back to town on this foot."

The man nodded and shuffled off to the back, leaving Priscilla alone again. She looked down at the glass bird in her hand but the niggling memory didn't return. It was gone. She sighed and struggled to her feet, wincing at the sharp pain in her heel as she rested her weight on it.

_I almost had something…_she thought fiercely and stared into the stairway that led into the upper levels of the house. Her grandparent's old room, her father's room, and her old childhood bedroom were there. Did she truly want to reawaken the old ghosts of her past? Her logical mind screamed no. But something deeper demanded yes.

Priscilla set the glass bird down on the table and started walking.

She started up the stairs; they were so close together she could have taken two at a time with ease. When she was a child she had always taken three just because she could. Leaning heavily against the wall as she climbed she proceeded to the upper levels of the house.

Old gas lamps lined each side of the long hallway; they were just as dusty as the rest of the house but had an extra level of grime around the edges where a flame had scarred the glass. Priscilla remembered a time when they had actually been lit. She had been running….

Her head throbbed and her hand came up to rub at her temples. The thought of her running as a child had never inspired a headache before. Perhaps she was getting old. Snorting at the thought she started shuffling down the hall, using the wall as a crutch as she walked. Occasionally she would pause and remember random bits of her childhood growing up in the old manor. She smiled fondly at many of the memories, sadly at others, and simply stared at the rest.

She froze at the sight of her father's room. The door was open, like it had always been for as long as she could remember but she was strangely apprehensive about crossing the doorway. She didn't want him to see her… which was a silly thought because the man had been cold and buried for twenty years. _I am a grown woman; an open door way is nothing to fear for a grown woman. _She moved slowly despite her internal _mantra_- a word she had picked up from a friend at the paper- and carefully peeked around the corner to stare into the room.

Her father wasn't there.

Some part of her unclenched at the realization but still she huddled by the wall as if the man could turn and see her at any moment. His chair was pulled up close to the fire like it usually was; she remembered that he would always stare into the flames as if they could offer him an answer to all of his questions. He was completely oblivious to the world in those times.

She _slinked- _a word she had picked up in a novel she had recently read-into the room and made her way to the wardrobe. Priscilla's hands moved slowly over the old and dusty wood as she crouched down. Something was inside the wardrobe that she needed to get… she frowned at the thought.

When she was little she had snatched things from her parents room all the time- she was sure she was the reason at least three of the maids were fired- and had hidden them away. She couldn't recall a time when she had gone into this particular wardrobe though.

She didn't know what she expected to find when she opened the bottom drawer, but moths were not it. Priscilla only just held back a scream as the demon bugs fluttered around her head before flying off into the house. She hated the little devils with a passion. Breathing heavily she carefully leaned back over the drawer; inside were only clothes. Her father's clothes. She dragged her hands over the fabric, wool, silk, velvet… but she couldn't find the thing she was looking for.

Whatever that was.

_This is silly. _She thought, and shut the drawer slowly. There had never been anything to find because she already had it. Shock filled her every pore at the thought. She already had it? Her heartbeat sped.

As a child she had only one place she would put her treasures, and if it were still there she could check. She slowly stood, glancing over at her father's empty chair- feeling slightly guilty for rummaging through his things- before tiptoeing out of the room.

If her foot had not been hurt she might have ran all the way to her old room. Her heart felt like it was going to pound out of her chest. Could the old hatbox still be there? A few of the maids had tried to steal and run after the murders, what if one of them had taken it?

There was only one way to know.

With a lump in her throat she slowly made her way to her room and opened the door. It was very purple. She had loved the color as a child. She limped over to her old wardrobe- it had seemed so much bigger when she was a child- and carefully lowered herself to the floor, coughing at the cloud of stirred up dust the action caused. After her eyes had stopped watering she peered under the wardrobe and smiled widely at the sight of the old hatbox.

Priscilla could no longer fit into the gap underneath so she shoved her arm underneath the heavy piece of furniture with a grunt. She groped around for a moment before pulling out the little box. Grinning like a Cheshire cat she went over to her old bed and sat down heavily, flinching at the sound of a loud thump.

_Oh God don't be a rat…_

She prayed, setting aside the box for a moment before looking under the bed. It was a book. She pulled it up and laughed when she read the cover. It was her old dictionary. She opened the old leather tome and giggled at the clumsy scrawl inside. _**Property of Priscilla M Riddle DO NOT TOUCH.**_ It was written in black crayon. She shook her head with a smile and set it aside. She would have to take it with her the next time she saw her old Nanny- who was her _very _old Nanny now and _still _didn't appreciate it when children jumped on her back for rides-it would be fun to reminisce over at the very least.

The hatbox waited to be opened.

Almost hesitantly she grabbed the edges of the old box and slowly opened it. It reeked of potpourri and mothballs. She forgot the smell after a moment when she saw her old treasures.

An old spoon with a rose on the handle, a half melted candle, perfume and pearls, a cigar, and-_ A golden cufflink._

Memory attacked her brain all at once and she dropped the box in her haste to grab at her head. Old thoughts swarmed like angry bees in her skull, buzzing loudly and _demanding _she pay attention to each one _now_. She remembered her missing day. She remembered finding the cufflink, she remembered getting her dress dirty and needing to change it for dinner that night, she remembered her father's insincere smile when he told her her mother wasn't coming to diner, she remembered the heartbreak of thinking her parents didn't love her for going to look at the tramp in the house by the hill…

A face flashed into her mind's eye. Pale and pretty and so like her fathers they could have been twins if not for the age difference.

"_Who are you?" She had asked._

"_I suppose I am your brother."_

"Brother," she groaned and curled into herself "I have a brother."

He had said something next. Something strange that made her forget he even existed. What could do that?

Witchcraft.

Suddenly her father's mad ramblings didn't seem so mad anymore. Didn't he always say he had married a witch?

_And if that witch had a child…_

Horror made her start to hyperventilate as everything started to make a sick kind of sense and she curled even more tightly around herself as another memory shot into sharp focus.

She was in the police station, eight years old, and men in dark red robes were surrounding her. They had the same kind of sticks her brother had. They had asked question after question and not very gently either. They wanted to know who killed her parents. They wanted to be sure that it had been…. What had they called him? Morfin Gaunt.

When she could give them no answer they said more words and she forgot them as well.

_Who do these people think they are? _She thought furiously and bit her tongue to keep from screaming. _They can't just play with people's memories like that! Who gave them the right?_

Twenty years. Twenty years of wondering solved. Gaps in her head fit together like a puzzle now, the old fear replaced by new determination as she struggled against the agony in her head that prompted her to forget again.

_My memory is mine again, and no one can take it from me!_

She didn't know if it was the words thought or the raw determination that throbbed in her veins but the headache faded and everything was crystal clear.

She had a brother.

He killed their family.

He was a witch.

She was going on a witch hunt.


End file.
